Mr Monk Meets his Nemesis
by SJO
Summary: After Dr. Kroger's death, Harold Krenshaw comes to Monk with a difficult request. Mostly drabble, not much of a plot, AU.
1. Burying the Hatchet

Mr. Monk Meets his Nemesis

A Monk Fanfic by SJO

Note: NBC Universal owns "Monk," not me. I wasn't sure what they're going to do about Dr. Kroger since Stanley Kamel passed away when I was writing this chapter. All I really knew was they cast a new psychiatrist character. I know a few more details now, like the new psychiatrist is named Dr. Bell. So, this is officially an AU. Maybe there's still some truth to it, though.

Chapter 1: Burying the Hatchet

Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock, knock. Knock.

It was 6:30 in the morning. Natalie usually didn't come until somewhere between 7:00 and 8:00. Maybe she came early.

Monk had just finished getting dressed, and he starting going to the door. It was knocking again. Five more times. 17, 18, 19 . . . come on, one more, make it an even 20—there. He opened the door.

"Hi." It wasn't Natalie.

"Harold?!"

Harold Krenshaw nodded. His wide-eyes looked very baggy, and he had a bit of a five o'clock shadow. His hair was messed up, and his clothes were wrinkled. He had some sort of bundle under his arm. He bent down and picked up the newspaper on Monk's mat and handed it to Monk. "Your newspaper," he said in the same meek voice.

Monk snatched it out of his hand. He still didn't like the guy. "Why are you here?"

"Just a minute. Can I come in?"

"Do you have to?"

"I guess not, but I am tired. I'd kinda like to sit down."

"OK, you can come in." Monk stepped aside and let Harold walk past him. He really didn't want Harold to come in his house because now it meant he had to be a good host. "Just a minute." He started to get the wrap for the couch.

"Oh, you don't have to bother. I brought my own." Harold took the bundle out from under his arm and pulled out a white, king-sized towel. "I bought it last night. Then I washed it, bleached it, dried it, ironed it, and for good measure I Febreezed it. Smell if you don't believe me."

"No, that's fine."

"And I got ten more just like it in the car," Harold said as he draped the towel over the couch and sat down.

"Can I get you anything, some water, coffee?" Monk asked half-heartedly.

"Coffee would be good. I take it black."

"I bet you do," Monk muttered as he went to the kitchen to prepare it.

"Your house looks very nice," Harold called into the kitchen. "I mean, it's perfect! Mine's a train wreck. I really mean it. It literally looks like a train hit it. No matter what I do, it's like that every day."

"So now we're making small talk," Monk thought bitterly as he put a purposely-uneven scoop of coffee into the filter. "What could he want to talk about? What do we have in common except—?"

Monk said aloud, "I haven't seen you since the—"

"—funeral. Yeah, I know. I've seen you a few times, though, on the news."

"Have you found a new therapist yet?"

"Not yet. I was thinking about joining a support group. I mean, I don't really like crowds, but it probably isn't too big. And if we all had the same issues, it shouldn't be all that bad. How about you?"

"Yeah, I was lucky. I happened to meet one just after the service who was willing to deal with me. Dr. Kroger told me about him once, Dr. Lowenstern."

"Really, the Nobel winner? Wow, you are lucky. I don't think I can afford him."

"How did you find my house?

"Directions Direct. It's an Internet site. You just type in the name, and it gives you an address and directions. Pretty weird, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is." Monk came back with a mug. "Here's your coffee," he said dryly.

"Thank you." Harold took a sip; then he pulled out of his bundle a coaster and set it down on the coffee table. "You still don't like me, do you?"

"I don't think I'll ever like you, Harold."

"I can't say I blame you. I wouldn't like me either, after all our spats. You know, Dr. Kroger wouldn't want us to fight, especially not now."

"What are you doing? After acting like a spoiled toddler every time I met you, you're now playing the parent?"

"Monk, please. Let me talk." Harold took another sip of his coffee. "It's not just you. I've been having problems lately getting along with a lot of people—coworkers, neighbors, my . . . wife. In my last couple of sessions with Dr. Kroger, I was talking to him about it. It's a problem I really want to take care of. He's the one who brought up you because he'd seen us fight. You know, he told me something I hadn't even considered. He said . . ." (Harold paused and took a hard gulp) "He said we pretty much have the same problems, but we just deal with them in different ways. Our session ran out of time, and he promised to give me some steps to help me next time. Then . . . well . . . it never happened."

Monk put his hand to his forehead. That must have been the day of the accident.

"He didn't tell you, did he?"

"No, he never talked about his other patients, even when I asked."

"I know. He never talks to me about you, either. It really surprised me that he said that one thing."

"My session was going to be the next day."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"Look, Harold, if you're here to find out what happened to him, you came to the wrong guy. I've been over it and over it, and for once, it's exactly the way they're saying in the papers."

"Monk, it's not about—"

"Dr. Kroger was not murdered! It was an accident!"

"I know, I—"

"He was hit head on by a drunk driver late that afternoon. I don't understand it anymore than you do. I know he had air bags. I know he was a responsible driver—Dr. Kroger, I mean, not the drunk."

"I know."

"But the police have taken care of it. The guy is sitting in a jail cell, and he'll more than likely be there for twenty years without parole, which is probably the closest we're going to get to justice."

"I know, I know, I . . ." Harold bowed his head, closed his eyes, and squeezed his hand into a hard fist.

"I've been trying for weeks to figure out another reason for his death, and . . . I can't. My new doctor has been trying to help me let go, and I'm really bad at letting go."

"It's not about that. I'm not here to talk about Dr. Kroger." Harold looked Monk in the eye. "I was just thinking, for his sake, could we at least try and bury the hatchet?"

Monk stared at him. Could he really be serious? Finally, he chuckled. "What good would that do? We'd just get really dirty!"

"It's a figure of speech, Monk."

"I know it's a figure of speech," Monk said in a serious tone. "Harold, I hate you. We can't be friends." He took Harold's coffee mug. "Why don't you just leave and we'll never see each other again?"

"I can't live with that!"

"Yeah, well, that's how I bury the hatchet!" He walked briskly back into the kitchen.

Harold stood and called into the kitchen. "Won't you even try? I mean, haven't you ever thought about it? Why did we get off on the wrong foot? We're not that different! We could have been friends from the start!"

"Natalie ought to be here any minute. You should go."

"Well, that's one thing I wanted to offer. I—" Just then, there was a knock at the door. "I'll get that."

"THAT would be her!" Monk started to walk past him, purposefully getting in Harold's way.

"I said I'll get it!" Harold tried to push past Monk, so they ending up fighting on the way to the door. Natalie ended up opening it herself.

"Hey, what's going on—Harold?! What are you doing here?"

"Good question," Monk muttered as he pulled himself away.

"Uh, good morning, Miss Teeger," Harold said as he straightened up. "You're looking . . . lovely today."

"Oh, thank you," she said uneasily.

"I see you've cut your hair again."

"Well, yeah . . . two months ago."

"Um, I probably should say, I hope there's no hard feelings about my beating you in the school board election."

Natalie laughed. "That was, what, four years ago?"

"I know, but I don't think I . . . ever said anything."

"Well, you did tear the school down, but . . ." (Harold gave her a very disappointed look) "Well, it's a moot point anyway. Julie's in high school, so . . . water under the bridge."

Harold smiled. "Thank you. Um, I was just going to offer for you to take the day off."

Monk shot him a horrified look. "WHAT?!"

Natalie smiled uncomfortable. "Well, that's very generous, but—"

"Natalie, don't!" Monk came closer to her and said softly in her ear, "Don't leave me alone with him."

"Relax, Mr. Monk, I'm not going anywhere," she replied softly.

"Well, what can she do that I can't?" Harold said in an annoyed tone. "Monk, I'm in the place that you're in! I know what you need! I can help out as well as she can. I'll start by washing the coffee mug. You want me to wipe it clockwise or counterclockwise?" He started walking to the kitchen.

"I have a dishwasher, Harold!" Monk yelled at him.

"All the same!" Harold yelled back. "I'll just pre-wash it. Nothing can be washed too much, can it?"

"Yes it can!" Monk turned back to Natalie and said quietly, "Can you make him leave?"

"Well, what's he doing here?" Natalie asked back.

"I don't even know, but he's already driving me crazy."

"Did he come all this way to argue with you again?"

"No, it's worse! He's being nice! That's the thing; all because Dr. Kroger is gone, he thinks we can be all buddy-buddy."

"Alright, I'll go talk to him." Natalie went into the kitchen, where Harold was already running water in the sink. "Hey, Harold?"

"Mmm?" he replied, looking up at her.

Natalie paused as she looked very closely at his expression, and she felt bad. "Listen. It's, uh, very . . . sweet, what you're doing, but uh—"

"You think so?"

"Well, uh, you see, uh, Mr. Monk and I have got to run some errands. We have a tight schedule today. He needs to do some grocery shopping, and then we probably ought to check in with Captain Stottlemeyer, and—"

"Oh, I'll come with you! Actually, I'll be happy to drive. I know Monk can't drive, but that's fine. One step at a time, you know."

"I'm not getting in the same car as you, Harold!" Monk said angrily as he came into the kitchen. "You probably listen to . . . music."

"I'm more of a talk radio fan. But now that you mention it, Dr. Bill's show is coming on. You'd probably like Dr. Bill. He's a no-nonsense kinda guy."

"Oh yeah, I love Dr. Bill!" Natalie said.

"Dr. Bill?" Monk said doubtfully.

"Dr. Bill Spicer," Harold explained. "He's a famous psychiatrist, and he's got a talk show on the radio. He's been doing it for about ten years, I think. When I didn't have a session with Dr. Kroger, I'd usually listen to Dr. Bill. He'd really give me some advice I could use."

"Well, if you liked him so much, why did you even go to Dr. Kroger?" Monk asked.

"Because I called in so much, they blocked my number," Harold grumbled. "Besides, there are some things that are easier to talk about in person."

"You know, that's really nice, Harold, but I think Mr. Monk would be more comfortable with me," Natalie said in an apologetic tone.

"Well, can I come anyway? I just remembered, I'm running low on milk—" (Monk gave a frightened squeak, and Harold saw the look of terror on his face) "—do-dads. Milk Do-Dads." Harold chuckled. "I find a lot of comfort in chocolate and peanut butter-covered raisins. I've been downing them a lot lately, and I'm about to run out. Don't tell anybody."

"I guess you could follow us."

"OK, thank you!" Harold's face brightened, and he turned back to washing the cup. Monk looked at Natalie with complete shock.

* * *

On the way to the store, Monk told Natalie everything. "I don't like this one bit, Natalie. I really don't like this! He's up to something; I just know it. Wait, you just missed the exit!"

"I know. We're taking the long way." Natalie sighed. "Mr. Monk, I know you're not going to want to hear this, but . . . I don't think we should send him away."

"What?! Natalie, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"Harold took Dr. Kroger's death really hard. Don't you remember at the service? When the rabbi invited us to share our favorite memories with Dr. Kroger, Harold couldn't do it. I mean, you even said a few things."

"Don't remind me."

"Well, when I look at Harold now, he looks so sad. Even when he tries to smile and look happy, I see this really deep sadness in his eyes. He looks almost as sad as you. And it's obvious he's not taking care of himself. You could probably tell, he's having trouble sleeping. I think he's still grieving over Dr. Kroger, and unlike you, he hasn't found someone to help him process that grief yet."

"What part of the grieving process involves pestering people who hate your guts?"

"I wouldn't think of it that way! You know, when Mitch died, I talked to some of his buddies, even some of the other pilots who served with him. I still call his best friend sometimes. I hardly knew these people when Mitch was alive! I may have said, 'Hi, how are you' a couple of times. I just felt like I needed to talk to them because they were almost as close to Mitch as I was. Wasn't there anybody like that with Trudy?"

"Oh yeah, pretty much everybody we knew, but I didn't want to talk to them. When Trudy died, I didn't want to talk to anybody . . . ever again."

"Well, we all grieve in different ways. Anyway, I think that's what Harold is trying to do with you. He knows that you knew Dr. Kroger, and he wants to connect with somebody who was just as close. And this thing he's talking about with Dr. Kroger advising him to bury the hatchet with you, well, it sounds almost like he's trying to fulfill Dr. Kroger's last request. You know, it's Harold's way of tying up loose ends, honoring his memory. It's the same reason you're looking for Trudy's killer!"

"No, it is not! I'm trying to bring someone to justice. This is . . . this is completely insignificant by comparison!"

"It's not insignificant to Harold! You know, I think he's trying to empathize with you. Do you really think he wants to go to the grocery store to buy candy? Why don't you, for once, try to empathetic too, if not for your sake or Harold's sake, then for Dr. Kroger?"

"Because I hate the man."

"Why?"

Monk stuttered as he searched for an answer. "Well, you've seen him! You know what he's like."

"You know, a lot of times when I see him, I see you."

* * *

Harold deserted them as soon as they got to the grocery store. Monk felt a little relieved, thinking that they lost him. Then, they got to the soup isle. Monk was staring at the labels, and Harold joined them, a grocery bag already in his arms.

"Oh, you want me to hold that for you?" Natalie asked.

"No, it's fine. I got it," Harold answered.

"It's ok. Let me." She took it out of his arms. "Wow, it's heavy."

"Yeah. Well, thank you. Man, where can I get a Natalie?"

"Uh, aren't you married?" Natalie asked ambivalently.

"Yeah, but Marissa's usually at work."

Monk was trying so hard to zone him out. "That one. No, no wait . . . that one. No, on second thought . . ."

"You should probably go on out to the car," Natalie said. "This could take up to an hour."

"He's having a problem with choices?" Harold asked.

Natalie nodded. "It happens all the time."

Harold stood next to Monk. "Hey, you really need to learn a little rhyme I learned in grade school. I used to have a problem with choosing, and this rhyme got me out of a lot of binds. I think it could really help you out."

Monk sighed. "What is it?"

"OK, which one's are you trying to choose between?" Monk pointed to three different labels. "OK." Harold extended his index finger and pointed at each can of soup while reciting, "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, make him pay fifty dollars every day. My mother told me not to pick the very best one, and you are not it."

Monk stared at the last item Harold pointed to. "So, what do I do?"

"Well, that one's 'not it.' It's out of the running. So, you say the same rhyme to the other two, until you have one left."

"I don't understand. You said, 'My mother told me NOT to pick the very best one, and you are NOT it.' Isn't that a double negative? Don't they cancel each other out?"

"You know what? Now that you mention it, that doesn't make much sense. I never thought of that."

"And how can you possibly catch a TIGER by the toe?"

"Oh, you know actually, that wasn't the original word. The word that was originally there is deemed offensive."

"Oh . . ." Monk said as it dawned on him what that word was.

"I tell you what. I know another one. It makes a little bit more sense. It has a literary reference you might recognize." He cleared his throat and started pointing at the other two and recited, "Wire, briar, limber, lock, three geese in a flock. One flew east, one flew west, one fl—"

"Flew over the cuckoo's nest," Monk recited with him.

Harold nodded and continued, "O-U-T spells out goes you, you old . . ." (Harold paused and grimaced) "dirty . . . dish . . . rag . . . you." Monk grimaced too. Harold handed him the "winning" can of soup. "I'm sorry. I didn't write it. That's just the way it goes."

"Why didn't they change that one?"

"I don't know. It's useful, though, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Memorable."

"It's certainly that."

Natalie just watched them in amazement. She never heard anybody try to analyze those stupid rhymes before. Just then, her cell phone rang.

"So, you already paid for your stuff?" Monk asked.

"Yeah. I only had one thing to buy, so I went through the express lane. I love those, you know, self-checkouts. It makes me feel so independent. I tried to teach myself patience by waiting in the ordinary lines. Well, I'm not doing that anymore."

"What if you had to buy more than twenty things?"

"I ask Marissa to do it."

"Mr. Monk," Natalie spoke up. "It's the Captain. He has a job for us."

"Thank goodness," Monk said under his breath.

"Oh, I can get to see what you do. Can I c—?"

"No, you can't come!"

"Please?"

"Harold, this isn't a walk in the park. It's a crime scene! More than likely, it's a murder! Civilians are not aloud."

"Well, technically, you're a civilian. So is Natalie."

"Come on, Mr. Monk," Natalie said as she put the phone to her chest. "I don't think the Captain's going to mind if he comes along, as long as he stays out of the way." Then she very quickly mouthed through gritted teeth, "Remember what we talked about."

"No, no!" Monk turned around to Harold. "I'm sorry, Harold Krenshaw, but there is absolutely positively no way on God's green earth that you are coming with us!"

* * *

"Captain, I think you remember Harold Krenshaw?" Natalie said with a gesture.

"Oh, oh yeah!" Stottlemeyer approached the visitor and extended his hand to shake. "Howdy do, Harold?"

"Hello, Captain Stottlemeyer," Harold said softly.

"Yeeah, couldn't remember if you shook hands or not." He added in a really low voice, "My heartfelt condolences on your loss."

"Thank you, sir."

The Captain patted his shoulder and then walked toward Monk and Natalie. "Is he with you?"

"Barely," Monk mumbled.

"Yes, he's with us," Natalie said. "He's trying to get to know Mr. Monk a bit better so that they could become friends."

"Look, Captain, if you don't want him to come inside and cause a scene, I'll support that."

"No, he can come in, as long as he doesn't touch anything," Captain Stottlemeyer answered.

Monk sighed in annoyance. "Thank you, Captain," Natalie said. She gestured to Harold, and he followed them inside.

"Make yourself at home. Just don't touch anything," Randy told him.

"OK," Harold nodded.

The Captain took Monk to the scene of the crime and explained to him the situation. There was a body on the dining room floor, apparently shot, but they couldn't find the gun or any additional evidence. Monk started walking around the room, looking through the gaps in his fingers. Then, he paused, looked over, and saw Harold's huge eyes on him. Monk closed his eyes for a moment and then tried again. He then looked up to see Harold still staring at him. "Harold, could you move? I can't concentrate!"

"But I want to see what you do!" Harold retorted.

"Mr. Krenshaw," Captain Stottlemeyer said, "if you don't mind, please go to the other room. There's not much else to see, and he really needs to concentrate. You can still hear his summation."

Harold sighed. "All right." He walked into the living room, but then he saw something that made his hand itch and cramp. It was an overwhelming compulsion to touch something, and he couldn't handle it. "Excuse me, officer?" he said to a member of the crew standing by, "do you have some latex gloves?"

"Pardon me?" he asked asked.

"I got to touch something in this room. I can't stand it. If they don't want me to touch anything because I'll leave finger prints, I'll be happy to wear gloves."

"Yeah, I think I got an extra pair." He pulled the gloves out of what looked like a kleenex box. Harold put them on, then he darted across the room and started playing "Heart and Soul" on the piano.

"Will you stop that?" Stottlemeyer yelled as he finished the first verse. Harold stopped playing for a moment. "Dang it, Harold, I told you not to touch anything!"

"I'm wearing gloves, sir. Just let me finish. It's not a long song, and I have to—" He started playing again. Then he hit a chord. "Wait. That didn't sound right." He started from the chorus, then he hit the chord again. "No. Am I hitting the—?" He played the chord again. He listened over and over, then he started play each note one by one. They, he centered on one note and played it several times. "There's something wrong with that note."

"OK, so they needed to tune the piano. I don't think that's a crime."

"Captain!" Monk called. Everybody got really quiet. Monk looked through his fingers at the piano. Then, he walked toward it. "It's . . .open. I think I see something." He gestured over to Randy, who reached inside where the strings were, and with his gloved hands pulled out a bullet casing.

"Well!" Captain Stottlemeyer said laughing. "Your friend found our evidence!"

"Please, don't call him that," Monk said under his breath.

"Way to go, Harold," the Captain said as he patted his shoulder again.

Harold smiled. "It's beginner's luck, really."

"You bet, it was."

Monk just glared at him. Harold noticed for a moment. Then he got distracted. "Oh! Look, they had one of these!" He went over to a shelf in the living room, which had a basket that held some smooth, glossy rocks. Harold started to pick some of them up and run them through his palms. He sighed in contentment and gave a genuine smile. "These are just so beautiful, so smooth and perfect. It's a wonder what erosion can do, isn't it?"

"Uh, I hate to burst your bubble, Harold, but that's not erosion," Monk said.

"It's not?"

"Nope. At least, not natural erosion." He couldn't help but grin just a little. "Wanna see what it is?"

"Sure."

* * *

They went back to Monk's house, where Monk showed him his rock collection and his rock tumbler. As Monk was showing him how it worked, Harold took a finished product out of the rock tumbler and inspected it. "How long have these things been around?"

Monk shrugged. "Years. Since I was a boy."

"And I'm just now finding out about this?" He picked up another rock. "I need to get me one of these. I love the feel of smooth, cold things, like these rocks."

Monk turned the rock tumbler off. "Me too."

"I don't know what it is. They just make me feel so . . . peaceful. You know, in one of my first sessions with Dr. Kroger, I was looking out at that big fountain outside, and I told him about that. And he gave me this blue marble. I think he got it out of a Chinese checkers game. He told me to carry it in my pocket, and whenever I felt anxious I could just hold it, just rub it in my hand, and I'll feel better. And you know, it worked. It really worked." He laughed a little and added, "And you know, he said the best thing about it is if anyone ever accused me of losing my marbles, I could say, 'No, I got one right here.'"

Monk laughed a little at that and secretly wished Dr. Kroger did something like that with him. He was probably making it up. "Can you show it to me?"

"No. I was holding it one day, and I dropped it. It fell into a sewer grate. I lost it, just like that. But sometimes, I like to pretend I still have it. My skin can remember what it felt like." He picked up a small, blue stone. "It felt a lot like this. So smooth and round."

"Why don't you just take that one?"

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I got plenty. Besides, you need a replacement for your missing marble, so take some marble."

Harold laughed really hard about the word play. Monk couldn't resist laughing a little too. Harold finally composed himself and said, "I can't just take it from you. Here." He got out his wallet and pulled out a perfectly pressed one-dollar bill. "I think this would be enough."

Monk took the money out of Harold's hand and put it in his pocket. "Thank you," he said flatly.

Harold was a bit disappointed at that; if they really were friends, he would have refused his money. "Uh, Monk, Adrian, this was a good day. This was a better day than any that I had in a long time."

"Well, I'm glad you thought so."

"I'm grateful that you let me be a part of it, however grudgingly that was."

"OK. Well, goodbye."

"Actually, Adrian, I hope you don't mind that I call you Adrian—"

"I suppose it's OK."

"I was going to return the favor. I want to invite you to my house. You could meet Marissa and see a little of what I do. And maybe you can help me straighten a little, take care of this 'train wreck.'"

Monk was not interested in the invitation, but when Harold mentioned the prospect of cleaning, he perked up. "OK."

"Great. Well, I have to go to work, so I won't be in until 3:00."

"Wait, when do you want me to come?"

"Oh, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!"

"Well, you see, the support group is tomorrow night. It would be great if you can come with me. I don't think I'll know anybody else. It may be good for you, too. You don't have anything on the agenda tomorrow, do you?"

"Just my appointment to see Dr. Lowenstern."

"Well, that's in the morning, isn't it? So, tomorrow afternoon should be fine."

"I guess so."

"Good." Harold started to walk away, but then he turned back around. "You know, I probably ought to tell you, I lied to you."

"About what?"

"About introducing Dr. Kroger to his fiancee, and coming to his house, and meeting his daughter."

"Well, that was rather obvious."

"Yeah. I was just trying to be important. I mean, you're the big guy who's always in the paper and on the news, the big-shot detective. I'm just a nobody. I guess I just wanted to one-up you. I wanted to feel more important. But I'll tell you what was true. I did feel particularly close to Dr. Kroger because he lived nearby. His subdivision was pretty close to mine. I sometimes saw him driving to and from work, sometimes in between. I always honked my horn at him, and he waved at me. He was always happy to see me." Harold closed his eyes and squeezed his hand again. Then he looked over at Monk. "I never meant for this to be a competition. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Monk was not sure if he bought this apology, but he couldn't think of any evidence that conflicted with it on the top of his head. "OK," he whispered.

Harold nodded. "Thanks. That takes a load off my mind. I'll see you tomorrow." He waved and walked out the door. Monk started cleaning up the rock tumbler stuff, just all too glad that it was over.


	2. The Support Group

Chapter 2: The Support Group

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock—

Harold opened the door. "Come on in, Adrian."

"Could you please close the door, for just one second? Let me make it an even ten."

"Oh. OK." He closed the door.

Knock.

Harold opened the door. "Come on in, Adrian."

"Thank you."

"No problem." He gestured into the room. "See, what did I tell you? Train wreck, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about? This is terrific! Everything's straight and neat and even."

"I'm telling you, it's a nightmare. I can never find anything when I need it. It may seem perfect now, but it keeps messing it up. Marisa and Jimmy keep moving everything."

"There's nothing on the floor. I don't see any dust anywhere." He breathed in deeply through his nose. "It even smells so clean. I don't even know where to start."

"Well, I tell you what. I'll give you the tour. Maybe that'll inspire you."

Harold led Monk into every room. Monk investigated every detail to find anything out of place that looked even a little bit sloppy. He didn't notice a thing until they passed by a really small room with the door cracked. Monk opened the door to see all kinds of models made of plastic, colored blocks as well as model airplanes and cars. There was a desk next to the window which was covered with blocks in piles according to color. It was sticky with glue.

"Is this Jimmy's room?" Monk asked.

"No, this is my office."

"Your office? What do you do, make toys?"

"Well, 'office' isn't really the right word. I don't work here. I mean, I see it as work, but I don't get paid for what I do in here. But it's not my room because I sleep in another room. I tried calling it a den for a while, but it just didn't work because—"

"OK, OK. It's your office." Monk shook his head. He was starting to sound like Kevin.

"Anyway, you don't have to bother with this room. There are a lot of unfinished projects in here."

"What's this?" Monk pointed to one such unfinished project on the desk, which looked something like a castle with high walls.

"It's my latest one, an original. I've been working on it for a few weeks now. It's a full-scale model of Jericho."

"Jericho? The city in the Bible that fell down?"

Harold nodded.

"How can you build a full-scale model of that? We don't know what it looked like! Because it fell down!"

"Well . . . I have to use my imagination. I like to think it's a reasonable facsimile at least."

"Oh, you really think that Jericho had purple bricks? And blue bricks?"

"You gotta work with what you have, right? At least the colors are symmetrical. All I really know about Jericho is that it had very, very, very high walls." Harold sighed. "I like building walls. They're so easy, just putting one brick on top of the other. You know, Dr. Kroger said doing constructive projects like this would relieve a lot of stress. He was right. He was always right."

"No he wasn't."

"Well, maybe not with you, but he was with me," Harold said in a harsh tone. He turned back to Jericho. "Whenever I'm in here, it's like the whole world disappears. It's just me and the blocks. I love that feeling, that numbness. Have you ever tried it?"

Monk nodded. "I know that feeling."

"Sometimes when I go in here, I don't ever want to come out. I've been spending a lot of time in here these past few weeks, just building walls."

"Are you going to tear them down?"

"I don't know. I probably should. It's always hard, though, destroying something you've worked so hard to build. Hey, I think I know somewhere that you can straighten."

"Where?"

"Come on." He led him upstairs to a room that was floor to ceiling with shelves of books. There was also a table, a love seat, and a stepping stool. "This is the library. You know, people keep taking books out of the shelves, and the spines get all uneven. I'm guilty of it, too, of course. You could probably, I guess, work on that."

"I used to work in a library. I know what to do."

"Really? Somehow, I'm not surprised."

"Some of those look kinda high, though."

"Well, you could start at the bottom and work your way up. You probably won't make it to the top shelves. Oh, just one thing—don't move the books around. I have my own system, and I'm really good at keeping up with it."

"Alright, I'll try to restrain myself." He worked in the library straightening for about an hour. All the while, he was looking, trying to figure out Harold's system. He couldn't get it at all. They weren't alphabetized by title or author's name. They weren't even arranged by subject. "It just doesn't make any sense."

"You must be Adrian," a female voice said.

Monk turned around and saw a small woman with dark hair smiling at him. "Uh, yes ma'am. I am Adrian . . . Monk."

She extended her hand to him. "Marisa Krenshaw. I'm Harold's wife. Oh, don't worry, I just washed it. With antibacterial soap, and I haven't touched anything. I always make it a habit to wash or sanitize my hands first thing when I walk in the door."

Monk came closer and shook her hand. It still felt a little wet. "That's very considerate of you."

"Well, it keeps Harold happy." She held his hand tightly. "I am so sorry about Dr. Kroger. I'm sure it must be really hard on you."

"Yes, it is," Monk said as he got his hand free.

"It's been awful for Harold. He's been miserable for weeks. He's been doing all sorts of things since the funeral that's been connected with this. He sent flowers to Chuck's mother, and he offered to help Madeline and Troy move."

"And now, he's trying to connect with me. Do you know why?"

"No, not entirely. You know, I'm very worried about him. He's holding something back about all this. I know he is; I can see it in his eyes. There's something he's not talking about, something he won't even tell me, something that's tearing him up inside. You know, I'm a little used to him keeping secrets from me. He's been so comfortable with the 'doctor/patient confidentiality agreement.' But this one . . ."

"He . . . didn't talk at the funeral."

"No, he didn't, and I encouraged him to."

"He just hides in that room, his office."

"Well, he's always there. Or the bathroom, you know, cleaning. We have an agreement. I'd be in charge of the kitchen, and he'd have the bathroom. He almost wrote it into our wedding vows."

"But he hasn't told you anything? Do you think he might feel responsible?"

"I don't know. Maybe. You're not saying that he—"

"No, Harold didn't kill him. It's just weird. Oh, forget it. I'm not the guy to get it out of him. I barely know Harold, and he hates me."

"I don't think so. Harold talks about you all the time, and he speaks so highly about you."

"He does?"

"Yes. He admires how intelligent you are and how much you accomplish despite your fears. In fact, I think he's a little envious of you."

"Well, I'd believe that. It's certainly not the side of him I've seen."

"Oh, he can be pretty irritable when he feels contradicted. It's his greatest flaw. Well, I gotta go down and make some chili casserole for the support group tonight. It's Harold's favorite, and it's what he wanted to bring." She smiled at Monk. "It was so good of you to come."

"Is it? I'm about 95 percent sure that it's a mistake. When Harold finds a new therapist—"

"I don't think he wants a new therapist. He hasn't even been looking for one. I don't know why, unless Dr. Kroger meant that much to him. But he has been so excited about this support group. He saw a flyer for it in Chuck's office, as he's always been meaning to go. I guess he figures now is the time. I hope they'll finally help him get through this." She looked off sadly for a moment, then walked out of the room. Monk turned back to the books.

* * *

"Harold!" Monk called later. He looked in the "office," but Harold wasn't there. He headed over to the bathroom. The door was open, and Harold was on the floor on his hands and knees. "Harold, Marissa says it's about time to—what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Harold replied without looking up. "I'm cleaning."

"You don't have any cleaning supplies—"

"I don't need 'em."

"—and the room is already spotless."

"You mean to tell me you don't see it? You who have been trained to find evidence, you don't see it? How can you not see it? It's all over the place! Against this white tile, it's so obvious to me. I can't believe that I'm the only one who SEES IT!"

"What? What am I supposed to see?"

"THIS!" Harold stood and showed him a small, wound-up ball of—

"Hair?"

"Yes, hair. It's everywhere, and it drives me nuts."

"So . . . you're losing your hair."

"It's not my hair. Well, some of it is, but most of it's too long to be mine. Most of it's probably Marissa's. Some of it might be Jimmy's. His hair is getting kinda long."

"And you're just picking it up from the floor, with your fingers?"

"I have to. No one else will."

"Harold, here's the thing: people walk on the floor. Sometimes in the bathroom, they don't even wear shoes." He added in an anxious whisper, "They walk barefoot."

"I know, but I don't have a choice!"

"Don't you have a vacuum?"

"You can't vacuum hair! It clogs the vacuum and shortens its life!"

"Well, why don't you sweep it up with a broom?"

"I tried that. It gets stuck in the bristles. I also tried doing this with gloves or tweezers, and it just doesn't work. No, this is the only way. Don't worry, every time I do this, I always wash my hands three times, especially under the fingernails. Then I sanitize them and put on some lotion so they won't get chapped." He threw the ball of hair away and turn to the sink. "I can't believe this doesn't bother you at all."

"Well, I don't have this problem, because if you hadn't noticed, my hair is very short."

"What about Natalie?"

"What about Natalie?"

"Her hair's gotta be all over your place. I mean, every time I see her, her hair looks different. I don't know how you stand that either. I can hardly look Marissa in the eye when she gets a new hairstyle for about a month. By then I forget what she looked like before the haircut."

"I've talked to her about it, but there are just some things she won't stop doing."

"I see," Harold sighed as he washed his hands. He turned the water off and shook the water off. "Guess we better go."

* * *

At 7:00, Monk and Harold went to the support group, which was held in the same complex as Dr. Kroger's office. They started with a potluck meal, but Monk did not feel like eating. After that, everyone sat around in a circle. Monk looked around and counted seven other people besides Harold and himself, five men and two women. Monk stared at the floor.

"You look uncomfortable, friend," a man in his thirties with dark hair who earlier introduced himself as Brian said to him.

"Oh, I'm just wishing that there was one other person here. You know, to make it an even ten."

"Are you kidding?" a young man with thick glasses sitting adjacent to Monk cried out. "We finally have nine people! Nine has been my favorite number since third grade! Don't you know all the things that nine can do? The sum of the digits for every number divisible by nine is equal to nine or another number divisible of nine, and if you add those digits, they equal nine! That's always true! Even if you multiply a number in the millions by nine, its digits will add up to nine! And—"

"No way, Mr. Mathematician," an older woman sitting next to Monk said. "We should have stopped at seven people. Everyone knows that seven is the number of perfection. It's all over the Bible."

"Seven's a prime number, not a perfect number. Six is perfect."

"Oh, so Biblical scholars for centuries have been completely wrong about the Beast whose number is 666!"

"Well, mathematically—"

"Michael, Grace, please calm down," Brian said firmly. "We should be happy with any number that our group reaches. It means more people to encourage and to help all of us." He looked at Monk. "And to answer your concern, we actually do have ten people here."

"We do? Is somebody late?"

"No. One of them is here in spirit." (Monk groaned; he never could believe that people were ever present "in spirit.") "Many of us are (well, were) patients of Dr. Charles Kroger. Even before he passed away, we have made it a tradition to have an empty chair in the circle to remind us that even though he is not here, we are guided by his wisdom. Now that we have lost him, I believe we need that more than ever. Well, as many of you have noticed, we have—"

"Excuse me, Brian," Monk said raising his hand, "we all know Dr. Kroger isn't coming. So, could we perhaps fill that empty chair? Perhaps that young lady can put her book bag there. So we could just, you know, fill in the gaps."

"Is it distracting to you?"

"Yes, I think it's distracting everybody."

"Thank you!" a balding man sitting next to the empty chair said. "I've wanted to say that for ages. The empty chair always creeps me out. What's the point of it anyway? We all know he's not coming!"

"Fine," Brian said in annoyance. "Go ahead and put your books there. Matt, I'm sorry I bothered you with that. You should have spoken up."

"Well, I didn't want to be a 'fusspot' here, too."

"No, it's no bother. We're all a family here." The younger female guest put her backpack in the empty chair. "As I was saying, many of you have probably noticed that we have two fresh faces with us tonight. Why don't you both stand up and tell us about yourselves?"

Harold and Monk both glanced around. "Which one of us should go first?" Harold asked.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, whichever of you wants to go first."

Harold and Monk both stared at each other, both silently pleading for the other to stand. When either of them refused to move, Monk made a gesture and mouthed, "After you."

"I'm not ready. You go ahead," Harold whispered back.

"I can't! I can't do this!"

"Oh, we're going to be here all night," Matt whined. "I keep telling you, Brian, that those open-ended options never work. Why don't you guys go alphabetically?'

"Thank you!" Harold said. "I completely agree. Thank you." He turned back to Monk. "Well, go on."

"He said alphabetically!" Monk whispered back.

"That's right. A comes way before H in the alphabet."

"Well, K comes before M!"

"We don't reveal last names here!"

"Well, last initials!"

"Tell you what," Michael said, "I'm thinking of a number between 1 and 10."

"1!" Harold quickly said.

"0!" Monk yelled just as quickly.

"That's not between 1 and 10!"

"Um, one-tenth!"

"Oooh, oooh, I know what to do!" a young man with spikey hair spoke up. He started pointing at them. "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe—"

"Excuse me, could you do the 'wire, briar' one instead? I like it better. It makes more sense."

"The one with the dishrag?" Harold said softly. "Adrian, we just ate!"

"Alright," Brian said. "I understand, you're both nervous. We all share a lot of the same fears, and we're all uncomfortable talking in front of people. But you got to learn to open yourselves up so that we can help you and you can help us. Don't worry. Neither one of you are being judged here."

Harold sighed and buried his head in his hands. "This was a bad idea," he said under his breath.

"You're telling me," Monk whispered.

"You in the tan jacket, why don't you go first?"

Harold took a deep breath. "Alright." He very slowly stood up. He took a moment to look at all of them. "My name is Harold, uh, K."

"Hello, Harold," the group said in unison.

Harold smiled and started scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, uh, you know, I should've expected something like this, but it didn't occur to me that I'd have to do this, so I didn't really think this through. I don't really have much to say. I'm a forty-something. I am happily married, and I have a son, whom I very proud of. I was on the school board a few years ago, but I don't really have an interesting job—"

"Oh, I recognize you!" the spikey-haired kid cried out. "You were the Frisco Fly, weren't you?"

"No, he wasn't!" Monk said.

"Uh, that's, that's really a long story, and I don't want to get into it right now."

"You don't have to if you don't want to. And Jake, remember what I told you last time about interrupting?" Brian said.

"Sorry, Brian," the kid said.

"Why don't you tell us a little bit about your problems, Harold?"

"My, my problems?" Harold said.

"Yes. Why are you here?"

"Well, I have OCD as well as a number of phobias and social difficulties. I've been Dr. Kroger's patient for about five, six years, I think. I guess I'm here because I've always felt so alone, like nobody really understands what I'm going through. Nobody really 'gets' me, not even the people I was closest to. My wife advised me to seek professional help, and it got me somewhere. Dr. Kroger understood. He was like my compass. He'd lead somewhere closer to sanity. And he . . ." Harold paused and looked away. Then, he sat down. "That's really all I want to say."

"Very good," Brian said. "Well, welcome, Harold. And you definitely came to the right place. 'Getting' each other is what we're all about. And now, you sir?"

Monk also took a deep breath and timidly stood. "My name is Adrian Mon—uh, M."

"Hello, Adrian," the group said once again in unison.

"Hello," Adrian replied. He tried to grin. Then, he sat down.

"No, no, go ahead," Brian said encouragingly. "Tell us some more."

Adrian stood up quickly. "Uh, here's the thing. I'm not really sure why I'm here. I came because Harold told me to come."

"Oh, good. You two know each other."

"Yeah, uh, you could say that."

"So, are you saying that you have no problems?"

"No, no, no, that's not what I'm saying at all. It's just that . . . this is kinda a crowd. I kinda have a problem with crowds . . . and talking in front of them."

The younger woman, who had the book bag, raised her hand. "Aren't you that detective?"

"Uh . . . well, yeah, I am a detective."

"I knew it! I see you on the news all the time. I had no idea your name was Adrian!"

"Well, you see, the thing about that is—"

"That's my name too! It's probably spelled differently, though, A-D-R-I-E-N-N-E."

"Adrienne, uh, that is Adrienne N., I don't think you're helping his nervousness," Brian said.

But the girl ignored him. "My roommate says you can know everything about a person just by looking at them!"

"Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration," Monk answered with an embarrassed chuckle.

"Do it to me! Tell me what you know about me!" The girl excitedly clapped her hands and bounced up and down.

"Adrienne N., our guest just told us that you've been misinformed," Brian said firmly. "If you've been listening, you would have known that."

"Oh, come on, Brian! I've always wanted to meet this guy!"

"He's not a side show!"

"Well, if he does his thing, I can show him my mental trick."

Monk was getting tired of this, and he knew he had to say something to appease her. "Uh, you're a law student. You go to Pepperdine University."

The girl squealed. "Isn't he amazing?" she said to Michael.

"Your shirt says Pepperdine University, Adrienne. Everybody knows that's a law school," he said in a bored tone.

"Yeah, but that doesn't necessarily mean I go there. What else can you tell me?"

"Well, uh, you usually keep to yourself. You like to do mental exercises," Monk said tentatively.

"That right! I do! How'd you know that?"

"Your book bag, it's full of puzzle books. I saw you working on a sudoku when I came in."

The girl giggled again. "That's just incredible!"

Monk shrugged. "It's a gift and a curse."

At that moment, most of the members in the group muttered approval. "I like that," he heard Grace say.

"That is tremendous, what you just said there, Adrian," Brian said. "Do you realize how much courage it takes to say something like that?"

Monk shook his head. "I haven't really thought of it."

"Well, so many people in the world think we should only consider the curse. They think we're freaks, and we'll never be able to function right in the world. But you consider the positive as well as the negative aspects, and you found a way to make them both work for you in a positive way. As long as you have that mentality, you're moving forward."

Monk sighed. "You don't know me that well. I always . . . well, I've always been different, but it got worse about ten years ago, when I lost my wife, Trudy."

Matt scoffed. "You divorced, too?"

"She was killed. Car bomb in a parking garage. She was 34 years old. We never found the killer. I mean, I found the guys who made and planted the bomb, but I haven't found the man who hired them. I was catatonic for three years, and I lost my badge. I've had a couple of assistants, and Dr. Kroger helped me out to get me somewhere close to functional. But moving forward? I feel like I'm barely moving at all."

Monk sat down, and Grace patted his shoulder. "I know just what you're going through. I lost my husband, too. She's in a better place now, you know."

Monk nodded. "Thank you." He's heard that several times, but it never really made him feel any better.

"Hey, did–oh." Jake raised his hand.

"Go ahead, Jake," Brian nodded.

"Did you ever find it?"

Monk looked into the boy's young, pimply face with confusion. "Found what?"

"Your badge. You said you lost it."

"Uh, he means he was discharged," Brian explained.

"Well, why didn't he say that?"

"It's just another way of saying it." Brian turned to Monk. "Sorry, he takes things literally sometimes. OK, we're very glad to meet our new guests. So, uh, what's new with everybody."

Everybody went around the circle and talked about their problems. It felt like stuff Monk didn't really want to hear about, though Brian did give some helpful advice. Neither Monk nor Harold spoke much for the rest of the session. The only other person who didn't participate was a young man named Timmy, who spent the whole session looking at the floor. Brian prompted him to speak up once, and Timmy simply said he didn't want to talk. In the end, it just felt like one huge argument. Harold and Monk were both anxious to leave.


	3. Tearing Down Walls

Chapter 3: Tearing Down Walls

"I didn't realize you were a widower, Adrian," Harold said after several miles of being silent on the drive back to Monk's house.

"Well, I don't think I ever told you. It's not something I like to talk about, but I talk about it too often."

"Yeah. I saw your ring, and I always assumed you were married. In fact, I thought you were married to Natalie."

Monk scoffed. "No! Why would her last name be Teeger, then?"

"Well, I assumed that she kept her maiden name because she didn't want to be associated with you. But it doesn't matter. I was wrong." He pulled up to the apartment and parallel parked. Monk got out, and Harold followed him to the door. "Um, I'm really glad you got to come."

"Yeah," Monk said flatly.

"So, uh, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Monk turned around and glared at Harold. "No!" He briskly walked inside, but Harold followed him.

"Well, in that case, we should just exchange phone numbers, so maybe I could call you when—"

"NO!" Monk stopped in his tracks and faced his guest. "Harold, this friendship is not going to work! I still hate you, and I think deep down, you still hate me too! Dr. Kroger's death isn't going to change that. I know you're still grieving. I am too, but I can't be . . . it doesn't mean . . ."

Harold sat down on the couch and once more lowered his eyes and squeezed his hand into a fist. Monk stared at what he was doing.

"Oh my goodness." He sat down beside him. "I know what you're doing. You're holding on to that marble, aren't you?"

Harold slowly nodded.

"Marissa was right. You are holding something back, something about Dr. Kroger. You've been trying to tell me this whole time, haven't you?"

Harold nodded again.

Monk thought back to the other times he saw Harold make that gesture. The first time was when they were discussing the event of Dr. Kroger's death. And then the other time was when Harold revealed that he lived nearby Dr. Kroger, and they often drove past each other as he was going to and from work . . .

Monk said in a pained whisper, "You . . . saw it happen, . . . the accident, . . . didn't you?"

This time, though, Harold shook his head. "I didn't see it happen, but I saw it. I was going to the grocery store to buy some mil—to buy something. I waited in one of the regular lines. There were two people in front of me, and the cashier had to call a price check. I purposefully went in that line because I was trying to work on my patience, something that Dr. Kroger wanted me to work on. Traffic was already backed up on my way home. I thought it was just regular 5:00 traffic, but then I saw the wreck. And I recognized the make of the car. And I recognized the license plate." Harold started to break up. "I pulled over and ran to the paramedics and the policemen. I said, 'That's my doctor in that car! What happened to him? Is there anything I can do?' And a cop just said, 'We have everything under control. Please return to your vehicle.'" He started to weep really hard now. "And then, I saw him, on the stretcher. I don't know if he was alive or dead at that point, but his eyes were open. Sometimes I think, if he was alive, maybe he saw me. But he was covered in blood, and he was so contused and contorted, Adrian, I hardly recognized him! And I was thinking, 'That's my friend, my best friend, my only friend. I'm never going to see him again! I'm never going to know all the things he was going to tell me!'"

He broke off and just started bawling. Monk didn't know how to react. He finally said, "So . . . that's why you only go in the self-checkout now. You feel guilty for waiting."

"It's what I should have done! I didn't need to waste my time in that line. I only had one stupid thing on my list, for crying out loud! If only I was in and out, I could have been there ten, twenty minutes earlier. I could have given him CPR. I could have been the first to dial 911. I could have just been there while he was dying."

"There's no reason for you to be this hard on yourself, Harold. You saved his life once, remember?"

"And I would have done it again. I wish I could've taken that hit from the drunk driver. I would have done it. I'm a nobody. The world can do without me, but the world still needs Dr. Kroger. And when I get down right to it, I'm afraid of a lot of things, but I don't think I'm afraid of dying."

Monk nodded sadly. "I know exactly how you feel. I know . . . exactly how you feel." And he began to cry. For a good fifteen minutes, they just sat there, just crying over Dr. Kroger, and everything else that was lost.

Then, Harold checked his watch. "Oh, it's nearly midnight. Marissa must be worried sick. I gotta get home."

"You'll be ok?"

"Yeah, I think so. I needed this. Thanks."

And then, right before he walked out the door, Harold Krenshaw said something that caused Monk to think for the first time in his life that Harold was a decent human being.

"I'm really sorry about your wife."

* * *

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

There weren't any knocks after that, so Monk knew it was someone who understood his interest in ten. He opened the door. "Harold?"

"Hi, Adrian," he said with a smile. He looked a lot better, like he'd been sleeping.

"It's been a while, hasn't it? What is it, a week?"

"Yeah. Listen, I'm not gonna stay long. I just wanted to say I found a therapist."

"Oh, good. Who is it?"

"Uh, Dr. Jonah . . . Sorenson? I think I'll just call him Dr. S."

"I've been to him before, back when Dr. Kroger nearly retired."

"Oh, I remember that!"

"Uh, have you been to see him yet?"

"Well, not yet, but he sounded great when we talked on the phone. He even has this empathy factor. He's disabled too, you know."

"Just to warn you, um, you may not like what you see."

"You mean his hand? That's what he was talking about. He just got a prosthetic, so . . ."

"Oh, good! Good." Harold was just standing there nodding. "So . . . I guess this is it, then."

"Guess so."

"Well . . ."

"Here." Harold reached out his hand. "I'm pretty sure your hand is clean, and I just sanitized mine, even into the cuticles. So . . ."

Monk still hesitated for a moment, but he eventually took the hand and slowly shook it.

"You know, you're not all that bad a guy."

"Yeah. You too."

"I'm glad we kinda met each other."

"Mmm-hmm," Monk nodded as he let Harold's hand go.

"Alright. Well, good luck with everything." Harold waved and started backing away.

"Harold?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's not do this again sometime soon."

Harold laughed. "OK, Adrian."

"Hey, Mr. Monk!" Natalie called from inside. "You decided what you want for lunch yet?"

"Just give me a minute," he said as he closed the door. "I know how to decide."


End file.
